


Advent

by JonquilB



Series: Apostacy [2]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Angst, Breaking and Entering, Catholic Guilt, Churches, F/M, Hotel Bars, I'm a bit of a romantic really, Mildly Dubious Consent, More tea., Smut, Tea, Topical news stories, What's a little groping between friends?, Work, You need to keep an eye on the quiet ones, christmas day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-02-10 10:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonquilB/pseuds/JonquilB
Summary: Three months afterAwake.





	1. Chapter 1

She floats out of sleep, dreams fading as her lids crack open in the dim winter light. Saturday morning. It will be busy at the cafe, later. She reaches out and finds empty bed next to her, the indentation left by his body exposed and long chilled. For a moment she’s perplexed, and then - _oh, of course._ Next weekend is the first one in December, and the start of Advent. The long, demanding build up to Christmas looms.

Well, she won’t be seeing much of her priest, then. He'd told her start of the liturgical new year is especially busy, with lots of additional parish demands and extra evening carol services to squeeze into his schedule. She tries to shrug off her disappointment. He's busy anyway with parish activities, and although she knows he's looking for a graceful exit she can also see he's having trouble letting go of the life he loves. It also doesn't help that he's being extremely disciplined about keeping his relationship with her separate from his public life as a priest.

“And besides,” he’d told her, stretched out on her sofa one stolen evening before he was due back at the rectory, “Advent isn't just really busy, it's also about renewing your faith, and reaffirming your commitment to God.”

When he caught the look she gave him, he quickly added, “Of course, my relationship with God is evolving at the moment. But I am _not_ crapping out on Him during Advent.”

****

She lasts a week.

One of the upsides of only going to church on the days when he’s guaranteed to be busy is that she’s sure to blend in with all the other fair weather Christians. The church is unusually full for the first Sunday of Advent and finding a quiet place at the back is slightly harder than usual.

It’s strange watching him work now. His service is surefooted and eloquent, as though he wasn’t wrestling with a key plank of his vocation behind the scenes. She watches him under heavy lashes, only catching direct eye contact fleetingly. She doesn’t even consider taking communion - her atheism is definite disqualification - though the thought of kneeling before him in public to receive the wafer on her tongue strikes her as quite erotic. 

He meets her eye just as she’s smiling secretly over this thought, and from the way his eyebrows shoot up and he looks away she has a feeling he knows exactly where her mind is.

****

Later, after the church has emptied she slips back in and goes looking for him, finding him working on his laptop at the table in the back room. There are books and Bibles and notes scattered everywhere.

“Hello, Father!”

“Jesus!” He reacts as though she’d deliberately crept up on him, “What are you doing here?” She widens her eyes meaningfully at him, 

“Oh, you know attending for high days and feast days, like a lot of people do...” she makes a show of looking around for eavesdroppers, drawing an exasperated grin from him. 

“I think you mean Holy days, not high days. Don’t worry, Pam is out sorting flyers for the community carol service. Seriously, why are you here today? This isn’t exactly your thing...”

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Oh you know, looking after my immortal soul, just in case. And besides, I’m due to see my stepmother later this month, so I thought I’d start building up my spiritual credit just in case I end up smacking her.” 

He rolls his eyes at her. “Oh c’mon, she means well.” When she stares at him with a raised brow, he cracks a bit. “And besides, it’s nearly Christmas. Peace on earth and goodwill to all… even irritating family members.”

“Do you ever visit _your_ family at Christmas?”

“Er, no…” there is a distinct streak of mischief on his face, “I’m incredibly busy, remember?” She rolls her eyes at his deflection and wanders nearer to him, making out that she’s interested in the bookshelves next to his chair. Their contents are all impeccably, austerely ecclesiastical. 

“So how much work does Advent actually take out of you? Are you really going to be here all day?”

He smirks at her poorly veiled motives. “I do have a huge amount of work to do today, as it happens. I have sermons to write, and research to do, and there's a couple of weddings coming up on top of everything else, and…”

“But you’re not going to work _all_ day, are you?” She has positioned herself gratuitously close to his chair, in her ridiculously short tea dress.

“Most of the day, yes." His tone is quite disciplined, so she is slightly startled (and not a little delighted) when his hand slips beneath her skirt and slides up the length of her thigh, "And I think it would be a good idea if you left right about now, as I’m having some trouble maintaining my compartmentalisation.”

Ah. _Got him._ A thrill of vindication shoots through her. God, he looks hot in his work wear. She remembers what he looked like the night he lead her to the confessional, and not for the first time regrets the timing of that damned painting. _Even just thinking what I’m thinking right now is a striking down offence, surely._ She reaches down and runs a fingertip across his lower lip, recalling just how talented his mouth can be. “Will you stop by at some point this week, then? Or do I need to come track you down here?”

His groan is heartfelt. “Oh God, don’t come here. Not for that.” His hand has crept round under her skirt though and cupped around her arse, stroking the smooth, sheer black nylon protecting her from the worst of the early December cold.

“Not even for confession, Father?”

“ _Especially_ not for confession. Fucking hell,” he’s smiling, in spite of himself. “Look, go now and I’ll come by tonight. I’ll... tell Pam I’m going for a run, or something.”

“Promise, Father?”

There is definitely a dark glint in his eye now as he regards her. She can’t help but note that his hand is still lightly stroking her arse.

“Promise. And don’t pretend I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking when you call me Father like that. But you really do need to go now.” He rises from his chair and takes a deep breath. “Go on, now, I’ll see you later.”

As she opens the door to leave, she hears him call after her, “And keep the dress on.”


	2. Chapter 2

At 7pm she’s still wearing the dress, as promised. She’s also swapped her tights for stockings and suspenders, completed a little essential grooming, and added a couple daubs of musky violet perfume to the backs of her knees. It’s a little overdone for a solitary dinner on her sofa, but she takes a longer view on this sort of thing these days.

She’s only just getting stuck into her ramen bowel when her mobile bursts into song. There’s only one person she thinks of when she hears that chorus.

“Claire? Is everything okay?”

“No!” Her sister sounds agitated. To be fair, her sister usually sounds agitated, so she’s going to need a bit more to go on. “No, everything isn’t okay. Can you come to Dad’s right now? It’s the baby.”

“What?! Are you okay? Do you need to go to hospital? Do…”

“No, no, not MY baby, Dad’s baby. Our brother. Well…yes it's about mine, too. Oh for God’s sake, can you just come here now please? I’m babysitting tonight but my vision’s gone all funny and Klare’s insisting I go to a doctor straight away, but someone’s got to look after the baby here. Please. _Hurry._ ”

Fifteen minutes and an Uber later and she’s climbing up the steps to Dad’s house. Klare opens the door before she reaches the top step, his sunny face lined with unusual concern. When she strides past him into the sitting room, Claire is slumped on the sofa and their little half brother is cruising about, trying to stuff bits of houseplant into his cherubic mouth with fat baby fists.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“No, obviously I’m not okay! Everything has gone dim and I’m seeing these weird flashes. Oh God, is he trying to eat something poisonous? For God’s sake don’t let him eat anything poisonous!”

Well her sister must be feeling all right apart from her vision, as she sounds entirely normal. “Right. Okay, apart from keeping him out of the poison garden, what exactly do I need to do?”

“He’s had supper, so he’s ready for his bath, story and bed. Then all you need to do is wait until they get home - they’re at some private view in Fitzrovia, so I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”

“Where’s Estella?” The Brazilian nanny had been a precondition of her little brother's existence.

“Off tonight, her boyfriend’s in London this week. You won’t be at all surprised to hear our stepmother's terrified about having to look after the baby til Tuesday. Oh God,” Claire’s tone shifted abruptly, “I haven’t even asked you what you were doing tonight. I’m so sorry, did you have plans?”

“We need to go, darling.” Klare is standing with Claire’s coat and bag in his hands, “I am sure this isn’t normal. Come on, the taxi’s waiting.”

He bundles her sister out quickly before she’s forced to lie about her plans - she’d confessed her sacrilegious dalliance immediately following the wedding, but somehow hadn’t got around to talking about its rekindling yet - and she is abruptly left with a small, frustrated and slightly sticky child, some lightly gummed plants, and a sinking feeling that her hot evening has just been thoroughly stymied.

****

Nearly two hours later, Klare rings. “Good news! It’s not preeclampsia, Claire’s just not eaten enough today and the baby took the energy she was using for seeing. She’s drinking orange juice now to get her blood sugar back up and then I’m taking her home and starting my packing.”

Well that’s a relief, especially given the way Claire’s last pregnancy had gone. She feels a hard little knot of worry in her relax. _Typical Claire, still going so hard at work and helping Dad with his life decisions that she wasn’t remembering to eat properly. Once an anorexic always an anorexic, I suppose._ She wishes Claire had decided to stay in Helsinki for the birth instead of asking to come back to London. She would almost certainly have ended up less stressed, especially with Klare now regularly commuting back to Finland during the week.

She looks around the sitting room, eyeing its weirdly alienating mix of familiar and strange. There's the vase her parents had picked up on their honeymoon to Turkey decades ago, the one she’d chipped when she and Claire had been arguing about something back when they were teenagers. There's that fucking portrait her stepmother had painted as a wedding gift, which made Claire’s face look around a decade older. _Thank God it's hard to ruin the back of my head. I’ve never been so happy to be snubbed before._ The room was still bare of Christmas decorations, but given the way her stepmother was talking about Christmas Day it couldn’t be long before it was bedecked with the entire seasonal display from Liberty. At least Claire would be there. _She’s always been so much better at pretending to get on with her than I am, I’ll miss her when she’s not able to run interference for me anymore._

Her phone beeps, flashing up a message: "Where are you?" 

_Oh fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck._ "My Dad’s. Emergency babysitting." She imagines him at her door, carefully dressed down and in stealth mode. "I don’t suppose you’d fancy keeping me company?" 

"At your dad’s? That would be a bad idea." 

_Bugger._ She knew he’d say that. 

**** 

It’s gone midnight before her dad and stepmother come in, giggly on socialising and free Champagne. They’re surprised to find her sprawled on their sofa with a glossy mag, but once they’re satisfied Claire is all right and the baby's in one piece they’re perfectly happy to shoo her off in yet another taxi. 

“Actually,” she asks the driver, “Could you drop me off at St Etheldreda’s Church instead, please?” It’s a sign of how desperate she is to see him, turning up at the rectory after midnight when she knows Pam is in and he’s certain to have been in bed for hours already. She has no idea if he’s even left his phone on. He’s certainly not responding to texts. _Clearly all these weeks of sneaking around to catch a few hours together are starting to get at me._

The driver is a little nonplussed to be dropping her off outside a dark church at half past midnight, but not so worried he doesn't leave almost immediately for his next gig. She stands looking at the church’s elegant Victorian structure, looking especially atmospheric bathed in silvery moonlight, and pondering her next move. _Okay, this may not have been my most strategic decision ever. But I know he’s here somewhere. Fuck, think of how much easier this would be if we could just exchange keys._

The rectory is on the grounds, fortunately. She walks slowly around the main church, eyeing the way the dull side of the stained glass windows glint like pewter under the full moon. When she reaches the far side of the rectory, she sees a small window left open a crack, a little higher than ground level. _Oh, thanks mate,_ she directs to God, just in case He's had anything to do with it, _that’s exactly what I need._

It’s a window she knows opens onto the stairs, rather than into a room. Strange for Pam to have overlooked shutting that for the night. She has a well earned reputation for being all about the details. 

Fortunately she’s spent enough time around the church recently to know there are some sturdy crates around the back waiting for this week’s rubbish collection. She carries one over to the window, and stands on it. From there she can hop up and catch the edge of the window ledge, pulling herself up until she’s perched with her legs dangling down the wall. She painstakingly pulls the casement window a little further open, working slowly and as quietly as possible, then carefully draws one leg up and over the stone sill and into the dark stairwell. 

One down, one to go. She was suddenly, desperately aware of just how awful it would be to be caught like this, breaking into a rectory after midnight in a mini tea dress, suspenders and probably laddered stockings. _Well, I’m here now. Fuck it. In for a penny and all that._ Grabbing the top of the window frame with both hands, she draws her other leg up, and after a bit of awkward twisting manages to ease it through the window until both legs are dangling inside. Now, she just needs to turn over so her belly is on the sill, and slowly slide down - scraping her belly, _arrgghh_ \- until one foot finally touches a stair tread and she can let herself down safely and mostly quietly. 

For a few minutes, she stands frozen with her eyes closed willing them to adjust from moonlight to darkness, listening hard for signs that her entry has disturbed anyone. Fortunately the rectory remains silent except for her pulse hammering in her ears. 

Now. _Where is he? Up the stairs,_ she supposes. In all her visits to the rectory, she’d stayed downstairs or outside on the church grounds, so she feels fairly certain he’s not on the ground floor. Hardly daring to breath, she cringes at every squeak from the old wood as she starts upwards. 

On the landing, she pauses to take stock. Four doors, just one slightly ajar: bathroom, two bedrooms, and… is one an airing cupboard? Frowning, she creeps over the landing to listen at each one, trying to work out which doors have people breathing behind them. In the end she just peeks swiftly around a couple of them. Fortunately his room is closest after the bathroom. Triumphant, she slides in and closes the door behind her, then stands listening to his slow, peaceful breathing while she considers her next move. 

His room is lighter than the hall. He’d left his curtains open slightly, so moonlight pours through and across his bed, illuminating his bare torso and bedding pushed down to his waist. His face is turned away from the light, features masked in shadow. She drinks the sight of him, taking time to enjoy the view and hesitate over her next move. She really, really doesn’t want to give him a heart attack. 

Carefully, she strips off her coat, trainers, dress, and bra, laying them softly on the floor as quietly as she can. When she’s down to nothing but stockings and suspenders, she steals next to the bed and sits carefully beside him, gradually swinging her feet up off the floor and allowing the mattress to take her weight. Once more or less lying next to him, she slips a hand under the edge of the duvet and assesses how much he’s wearing underneath it. _Damn. Definitely pyjama bottoms. At least he's given up the t-shirt, that’s progress from a few months ago._

He stirs slightly as she touches him. She bends a bit closer, gently moving a hand onto his belly and starting to stroke him. As he sighs and starts to stir more properly, she throws caution to the wind and gently presses her lips to his. 

At first he does nothing, and then, still half asleep, he responds by parting his lips and kissing back, yielding to her tongue as his hands move up to brush her bare shoulders. Then his eyes fly open and she feels him tense, so she raises her head and hisses quickly, 

“Don’t worry, not a fox.” 

“Fuck! Fucking hell…what the f… how did you get in here?” His voice is pitched high with surprise. His hands, gripping her shoulders, soften suddenly and slide down her bare back until they reach the top of her suspender belt. She can feel his heart beating rapidly with shock and adrenaline. When his hands slide to her bare arse and the stocking tops beneath, she feels him tense again in an entirely different way. “Oh Holy Mary mother of God…” She takes advantage of his distraction and confusion and takes his face between her hands, kissing him soundly before answering his question with a question, 

“Which one of you left the window on the stairs open?" 

“Fuck. That must have been me. I didn’t… Jesus, it was only open a crack, I had no idea anyone would even bother climbing through…fuck. Should I close it?” 

“Probably.” She is running her hands down his awakening body now, brazenly stroking his cock through his thin pyjamas and smiling to herself as she hears the change in the tempo of his breathing, “…but maybe not precisely this second.” She cuts off his questions with more kisses, loosening the drawstring at his waist and slipping her hand inside to brush her fingers against his cock’s hot, velvety skin before grasping it firmly. 

His groan is slightly desperate, “God please, no… what if Pam hears us…” 

“I guess you’ll just have to be very, very quiet, won’t you?” Her mouth is so close to his she's sure he must feel what she's whispering as well as hear it. She keeps the rhythm of he hand slow and steady, feeling him growing harder and harder as his body shakes off the last vestiges of sleep. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark of his room now, and she can see his eyes have fluttered open and his lips have parted as he gets into what she’s doing. His hips are starting to move a bit, encouraging her to keep going. She feels the corners of her mouth turning upwards. _That’s more like it._

He makes one last attempt to reestablish proprietary, though the way his body is responding rather undermines it. “Love, this still counts as church property, I don…” 

Not bothering to try to counter rationally - she knows he has the advantage there - she takes to surer ground and slides down to free his cock and give him some overdue attention with her mouth. As she suspected, as soon as her lips close over him he breaks off and watches her, mesmerised, his fingers reaching down to brush her cheek. Encouraged, she starts up a steady pace, using all the little moves she’s picked up with tongue, fingers, pressure and copious saliva until his breathing indicates he’s getting close, and then she pulls off and switches to just using her hand, slowing right down to keep him just hovering on the edge of orgasm. His eyes as he watches her are darkening with tension. 

“I’ve often wondered,” she whispers, looking up with affected casualness, “how long I could keep you in this state before you started begging.” The expression on his face in response is really quite gratifying. The sight of it has her quickly slipping a hand down to touch herself as she continues to taunt him in a light, almost conversational tone, “You wouldn’t believe how wet this is making me, keeping you just not quite able to come…” 

His sharp exhalation makes her grin. For a moment she thinks he’s going to keep capitulating, but then something almost savage flashes across his face. His growl is rough and heedless: 

“Come _here._ ” 

He reaches down and hauls her up roughly, pulling her over the length of him, fumbling with limbs and bedding to spread her legs and pull her knees forward so he can thrust hard into her. His first stroke is so fast it nearly knocks the breath out of her. She has to fight to keep her balance as he grips her hips so firmly she’s sure he’s leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on her. Riding as hard as she can to keep up with him, she ends up bracing her hands against the wall behind his headboard, desperately hoping to avoid any errant knocking that might put him off or result in a concerned visitor. Fortunately he’s so worked up the headboard isn’t threatened for long, as his orgasm twists his face and his breathing turns to ragged gasps. 

When at last he’s silent again, still breathing heavily and holding lightly onto the tops of her thighs (stroking her lace stocking tops, she’s noticed), she leans down to kiss him. _I never tire of watching him come like that._ His head drops back into his pillow as he accepts her tongue, the kiss lengthening and deepening and holding for a good minute before he breaks it off to whisper, 

“Jesus, sorry, I didn’t do very much for you, there…” 

She chuckles. “Don’t worry, your excuse is that you were taken by surprise,” Dismounting, she pulls the discarded bedding up over them both and stretches against the full length of him, murmuring provocatively into his ear, “though if you’re awake enough you can just lie back and watch me finish this.” 

She can tell, from the way his arm tightens around her and his fingers curl into her shoulder, that his soft snort is accompanied by a smile. “I’m not sure I can keep my eyes open now, but I’m willing to help where I can.” His other hand strokes her breasts and belly while her fingers slide around her unbearably slick clit and she brings herself to a couple of rapid, shuddering orgasms, one tumbling quickly after the other. 

Satiated at last, the last thing she’s aware of as the last of her tension unspools and she falls asleep is the soft, sleepy press of his lips against her temple. 

**** 

Daylight. She is dimly aware of him getting out of bed, throwing on a robe and padding to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she hears the shower start through the wall. 

As she wakens properly and her surroundings sharpen into focus - spare, almost austere furnishings, high ceiling, books, several more crucifixes and paintings of Jesus than she’d ever have chosen - she can hear sounds rising from the kitchen downstairs, mingling with the rush of the shower. There’s the rattle of a kettle, and the clinking of crockery and cutlery. Pam must be up, too. 

Now there’s a point. How and when is she going to get out of his bedroom, let alone out of the rectory? 

She’s still pondering her predicament when he returns, hair wet and with two mugs in one hand and biscuits in the other. She waits until he’s nudged the door closed behind him with his foot before she whispers approvingly, 

“Oh well done. How did you get away with…” 

“She’s just gone to fetch some laundry out of the dryer, so I got an extra mug going as soon as she left the kitchen and just threw some milk in before I went.” He looks around his room, “I must’ve something in here we can use for the teabags…” he bustles around, finally locating an old candle holder with palatable triumph. 

“I really need to ask… why exactly does Pam live here? That’s not typical, is it?” 

He shakes his head, fishing out teabags. “No, it’s really fucking unusual, actually. I mean, rectories are always too big for one celibate priest…” his tone drips with irony, “…but you’re more likely to get a few priests sharing than have a parishioner in residence, even one as dedicated as Pam is.” He sits back down on the bed with her. “Father Patrick invited her to stay after her husband died. She’s been part of this parish for a really long time, and she’s always been super involved. I guess he thought she was spending so much time here she might as well move in, and do a bit of housekeeping while she was at it.” 

He offers her one of the mugs. She indulges in a short morning stretch before she reaches for it, in the process extending a single long, stockinged leg out of the bedding and exposing one suspender-bound hip. He goes suddenly still, watching her the way a man stuck in a desert regards an oasis. 

His next words are quite a different matter, however. “You got me at a disadvantage last night.” 

She feels a pang of guilt. “You mean asleep?” 

“I mean really fucking horny.” She stifles a laugh, but can’t help but note his expression is faintly troubled. He gets back into bed, puts his arm around her, and kisses her lightly on the cheek. “Honestly, you’ll be the death of me. Or the damnation. Possibly both.” His tone is light, but the words are a little pointed. She winds her arms around him and presses her face against his neck, breathing in the scent of him and feeling his pulse flutter under her lips, like a trapped bird. 

“You chose God before, you know. And I respected your decision then.” 

“I know.” 

“And you started us up again.” 

“Yes, and I…” 

“I’m not going to force you to keep this going if you don’t want to.” She’s pleased with how grown up this sounds when she says it, even if it makes a ball of ice form in her gut. “But I am not entirely happy just being the outlet for your deeply horny, slightly filthy, heavily repressed secret self.” 

“Only slightly filthy?” He jokes weakly, then sighs and kisses her forehead. “I know, I’m not being very fair. I…” he falls silent, staring into his cup like he’s hoping to find enlightenment in it. 

“Look, you’re really not the only priest in this situation. I read a study from America that said something like fifty percent of Catholic priests have had sex at some point after taking vows.” 

He nods glumly. “I’ve heard that before, yes.” 

“And the Vatican has actually had to develop guidelines for what happens if priests father children. There’s even an entire charity devoted to supporting priests who are having affairs with parishioners.” 

“What about those of us who are screwing atheists? Do we get a support group too?” 

She chooses to ignore this. “So we’re not even unusual. And it’s not like celibacy is even a biblical requirement…” she's spend quite a bit of time Googling the history of clerical celibacy. He's way ahead of her, though. 

“Mmmm. Yes I know about that whole Protestant argument. It came up in seminary quite a bit, when we were talking about vocation. At the time I felt like it was a bit pointlessly overdone discussion, ironically.” His smile is rueful, “There’s actually a synod coming up in September, and they’re supposed to be discussing whether celibacy is strictly necessary anymore.” She sits up suddenly and stares at him. 

“Really? Is that what you’re waiting for, to find out if they lift the celibacy requirement later this year?” 

He winces. “Not really. Even if they did decide to soften it a bit, it would probably only be in a few regions where there’s a shortage of seminarians. I can’t imagine they’d extend any rule changes to anyone already ordained.” 

“So…?” She can feel that ball of ice growing, like a hailstone blown high into the atmosphere. 

He sighs. “So there’s no chance of having my cake and eating it, basically. But I knew that before I seduced you in your dad’s bathroom,” his eyebrows lift expressively at the memory, “So I am definitely leaving the priesthood. I’d already decided that still wanting to be with you was incompatible with the direction I'd taken.” He takes a long swig of tea. “Besides, I've been doing a lot of thinking about what comes next, and although I could spend years in limbo trying to prepare for a really massive change I do have an accountancy background from before my ordination. If I put some time into updating my certification I have something I can fall back on.” 

This is something she hasn't heard before. “Hang on, you were an _accountant_ before you were a priest?” 

“A corporate accountant, even. When I first took over here one of the first things I did was change our providers and restructure the parish accounts, so it's not like I've forgotten everything. We're in much better financial shape than we were before I started." The consternation on her face draws a smirk from him, "See? I told you my previous life was really spiritually impoverished.” He swings his legs out of bed and starts scooping up her discarded clothing, handing it to her a piece at a time. “Errr,” his previously smug tone is suddenly, delightfully shocked, “were you not wearing knickers at all last night?” 

Ah, familiar ground. She smiles cheekily. “Sweetheart, we had plans.” 

“So there you were cat-burgling knickerless through windows, like some sort of unhinged sex ninja. Jesus Christ. Fuck me...” he shakes his head like he can't quite believe the state of his life. 

“That's precisely how we’ve ended up here, isn’t it?” She wraps her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his back. His heartbeat is slow and steady, calmer than she feels. “But believe me, if fucking was all that was going on here I’d have been bored months ago.” 

He curls his hands around hers. “I know,” He turns to kiss her again, and she leans round him and into it with enthusiasm. 

Some time later, he takes a breath and adds, “Just stick with this situation a little longer, please. Until the end of Advent. I’ll move things forward, I promise. But for the sake of all that’s holy, please don’t break in anywhere again.” 


	3. Chapter 3

He’s at the altar late on a Saturday afternoon, preparing the candles for the second Sunday of Advent. Hope’s been lit already, its blackened wick a reminder of his sermon the previous week and the prickle of adrenaline he’d felt when he’d caught sight of her at the back of his congregation. Now Love awaits for this Sunday, with Joy to follow and then finally Peace reserved for Christmas Day.

Hope, love, joy, and peace; the promises that had drawn him, when he was frail and tired and not sure if he could carry on, back into the faith of his childhood. It had been a December afternoon nearly ten years ago when he’d impulsively stumbled into a church sometime after mass had ended. He’d ended up in a pew on his own and just stayed. When the priest had found him there - alone, kneeling, a bit distraught - and had invited him to the confessional, the relief of finally telling someone everything he’d been doing wrong, what he couldn’t seem to stop doing wrong, had cleared a sort of blockage within him. He had emerged that afternoon feeling lighter. Even his vision had seemed clearer. 

The following Sunday, he’d gone back. And then again. And then he’d kept going.

He’d spent another few weeks with the sweet girl he’d been shamelessly cheating on for years, and then he let her go. He spent another several months in the promising job with the venture capital firm, preparing one of its acquisitions for a quick turnaround IPO, and then he let that go, too. So when he sold his flat and entered the seminary a few weeks after that - to his friends’ and parents’ horror, _after all that work, you could’ve been CFO in a few more years_ \- he was purged of all the things he’d previously measured his worth by. It was just him then, alone, baring his soul to God and asking for forgiveness and a good, solid set of rules.

It had worked for quite a long time, too. Seminary kept the world out right when he’d really had enough of it. He went for months without speaking to his family, and it was a strange relief to find he didn’t care that they didn’t care. He barely saw any women, let alone found himself in a position to chat them up - they were definitely outside the rules. He'd felt calm and introspective and happy. As his studies had continued he’d become so dedicated that he couldn’t wait to get his first vestments; Advent purple, like the one the priest had been wearing on the afternoon he’d taken his first shaky step towards salvation. 

When they’d released him into a parish to serve as a deacon, he hadn’t worried at all about falling back into his old ways. The priest guiding him had been calm and dedicated, and he’d felt stable and resolute.

When he’d been ordained, he’d felt ready.

Stumbling within a few months of taking up his own parish had blindsided him, though. He should have paid more attention to himself during that first engagement dinner. It hadn’t taken him long to recognise the sickening lurches in the family dynamic around the table - the too-jovial laughter, the father’s inability to finish a sentence, the weirdly watchful silence between the sisters. By time the evening had violently exploded he couldn’t honestly say he was surprised. At least for him that sort of thing had always happened at home, out of sight.

So when he’d reached out to her, he was confident he knew the role she was playing. He’d played that one himself, once. And he’d felt confident - far too confident - that he knew how to help.

He was in trouble well before the episode in the confessional, but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. Her intentions were obvious the night she turned up with the carrier bag of G&Ts, but it was the moment he’d bluntly stated that they definitely, absolutely, would _not_ be having sex that he should have realised he was already lost. The attraction had been there right from the start. In naming it, he'd let it in.

He'd started dreaming about her. Erotic dreams, spurred on by his attraction, by her astute chipping away at his public face, by the way she drew him into her playful flirting. For God’s sake, she’d even managed to get him imagining her naked when he was _in a fucking Quaker meeting._

He’d been fantasising about her, and trying to stop, well before she’d turned up in his church that night and found him in his cups. When he’d lead her to the confessional though, he’d really thought he was going to take her back to the conversation they’d been having in her cafe earlier that afternoon. His motivations, at least in that, we mostly pure. When she’d finally, painfully, bared her soul to him and begged him for help, part of him found it entirely natural to fall to his knees with her to help her pray. 

It was another part of him that had an entirely different set of intentions, and recognised a God-sent opportunity when it appeared.

They way he felt was different from lusts that had driven him before, though. The kiss felt like the most natural thing in the world. And when it escalated it felt right - of course they needed to be even closer, as close as they could possibly be, _right now._

He couldn’t articulate just how grateful he was for the painting falling when it did. In his state - drunk, emotional, and suddenly acutely aware of his ten year sex drought - he could have ended up shagging her across the altar itself without a second thought. Which would have been unforgivably rude to Him, at the very least.

_And for fuck’s sake, if you’re going to blow up your second attempt at a life after you’ve already purged yourself of everything tying you to the first one, you should at least make sure you’ve got a clear head._

He couldn't pretend he didn't know exactly what he'd wanted. The hunger and longing in him had only started to dissipate a couple of nights later, in the sleepy moments when they lay curled together in her bed, telling each other the things they couldn’t bring themselves to say fully clothed.

Since he’d come to terms with the fact that the Church might not be the only sanctuary he’d need for the rest of his life, he’d been mapping out practical actions for leaving. What he hasn’t managed to work through yet is what will happen after he’s shrugged off its constraints and stepped back out into the secular world. He hadn’t done so well out there the last time, and that was just before it had become normal for - how did she put it? - _people to order sex they way they ordered a pizza._

Being really honest, even after the therapy he’s not sure how much of his morality he’s internalised, and how much is externally imposed.

_It would be nice if You wouldn’t mind giving me a bit of guidance on this next part. Something more constructive than a bottle of spirits, maybe?_

“Father?” Pam is at the doors, calling down the length of the church to him. Her voice bounces off the stone pillars, warm and resonant. “I’m going to head to the high street now and pick up the flyers.”

“Oh, great. Thanks,” he switches on a cheerful smile for her benefit. “How’s your Christmas shopping going, by the way? Nearly done?”

“Yes, almost. I’ve got something for all the grandchildren now, and both of my son’s wives. It’s just the boys to shop for now, and they’re always impossible,” Pam’s good humoured exasperation was grounding, as always. “Will you be here on Christmas Day Father, or do you have family to go to?”

“No, no, I’ll be here. I like the peacefulness.” It was easiest to just head off questions about family. 

“All right then, I’ll make sure I leave something nice for you for dinner. Thought I’m sure we can make room for you at my youngest’s if you like.” That was sweet. But that was Pam all over, really.

“Oh, that’s lovely thanks. But it’s fine, I really do enjoy the quiet at Christmas.” He gestures at the Peace candle, smiling benignly. 

Her cheerful planning leaves him with something else to mull over after she goes. As a priest, he is obviously supportive of family life in all its forms. He celebrates marriages and births, and gives comfort over deaths, and is broadly in favour of family life. The fact that his own family is car crash, he doesn’t really have a clue on how to be successfully married himself, and has never felt comfortable with babies makes carrying on with Catholic values outside the clergy a bit more… complicated.

His phone buzzes at him. He glances at the screen and feels a tingle in his stomach:

“Hey. Thinking about you. Hope you’re not adventing too hard. Xxx." 

He pauses to think about how he’s going to respond. In the end, he decides that messaging isn’t the greatest medium for expressing inner turmoil and settles for:

“Remind me to change my contacts entry for you to anything other than ‘Hot Atheist.’ People might talk.”

“Get out, you didn’t.”

“I did. Consider it retaliation for you always calling me ‘Father’ as a form of foreplay.”

“If that’s the best retaliation you can manage, I’m not feeling terribly motivated to behave.”

 _I bet not._ “Jesus, I’d better work harder then. We both know how that ended up last weekend.” The problem with banter is that he can feel their chemistry sizzling even through a screen. 

She seizes the cue to escalate. “I have an idea on how to make you work harder. What are you wearing?”

He rolls his eyes, even if she’s not there to see it. “I’m literally in my church. What do you think?”

“Oooh, thought so. Saucy.” then a moment later, “You up to anything tonight?”

“Well… I have the whole of St Philip Nery junior school coming in for a children’s service tonight because their church is having emergency renovations. And then I’m visiting a parishioner who’s ill and then writing my sermon on Love for tomorrow.”

“Is it going to be anything like your last one? Not sure that was very Christmassy.”

“Very funny. No, this one will be different.”

“So you’re saying you’re stacked this evening, but may have time for a quickie around midnight?”

“Not this weekend. I’m serious. I’ll be checking the windows before bed tonight.”

There’s a slight pause. “Damn.” Not even a hint of a joke in that last response from her. His conscience pangs.

“Stay out of trouble and we’ll manage some time together soon. How about Boxing Day? That’s usually really quiet.”

There’s another pause before her answer appears. “Until Boxing Day, then.” He winces slightly.

“Love you.”

A couple of minutes later: “Love you, too.”

****

 _Well, crap._ She’s not actually surprised, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling a bit disappointed. Idly, she scrolls through her contacts and picks out another name.

“Hey, are you around? Not seen you for ages.” To her gratification, an answer pings back fairly quickly.

“Well hello, gorgeous. Lovely to hear from you. How are things? Fancy a drink later this week? Thursday, maybe?”

“Not half,” her relief to get out and do a bit of socialising is practically oozing out of her fingertips as she types, “Usual time, usual place?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.”

Well, that’s something to look forward to. She stretches gleefully, and starts thinking about outfits. It’ll be a dressing up sort of night. Maybe she’ll get her nails done, too. She’s got the time, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday night finds her perched on a bar stool in an expensive hotel bar, sleek in a slim-fitting, knitted dress and with her short nails newly painted dark. Her hair is fucking perfect - Antony’s excelled himself this time - and she knows she’s nailed it when not one, but two separate men offer to send over a drink while she’s waiting. She turns them both down, of course. But she does give them both a once-over and an appreciative grin over her bare shoulder, sizing up the possibilities. _Not bad. Always good to know my options._

The bar is full of office Christmas parties at this time of year, and their ambient din is seasonally cheerful. They sound fun. She _feels_ fun just being near them. She’s already dead chuffed she’s decided to come out tonight.

“Hello Gorgeous, you look like you could do with a decent drink,” Belinda cuts her usual elegant figure as she breezes up, dropping a casual kiss on her cheek and settling onto the stool next to her. “I’m shocked and horrified that you’ve waited instead of getting on with ordering.” Waving over the bartender, she orders a gin martini. “God, I can’t stand the vodka ones - those fucking Bond movies have a lot to answer for. Now what are you having, darling? Please don’t order a fucking Cosmo, they’re for infants.”

While they wait for their drinks to arrive, they pour over a printout of the latest version of her business plan. She’s been making a few updates after speaking to her ex-bank manager, and is keen to get Belinda’s perspective on them. 

“Ohh, I like this bit - the table comparing the footfall in the prospective new location to your current one. If I was going to be challenging, I’d ask why not just move Cafe 1 to Cafe 2’s location and keep your growth a bit more organic.”

She’s prepared for this type of question. “Because the brand building and social media marketing I’ve detailed on pages 4 and 5 will support boosting overall revenues at both locations over years 1 and 2, which can fund further expansion in time.”

“Mmm,” Belinda is nodding, skimming through the pages, “If your brand building goes well, you can make a splash and then get straight onto franchising, selling up, and getting started on something else.”

“Er, what else? Like the canapés for corporates thing?”

“Oh darling, anything else. ANYTHING. You’ll think of something,” Belinda fished the olives out of her martini, then gestured pointedly with her cocktail stick, “Just make sure it’s bags of fun and you can turn a profit from it.” They clinked glasses, and amused themselves watching the Christmas parties and speculating on the attendees who appeared to be hooking up. After another half hour’s observation, they’d agreed that prospective couples who left within five minutes of one another were as likely a hit as the ones who staggered out more obviously entwined.

“Speaking of hooking up, your gorgeous sister seems to spent no time at all taking our Klare in hand. Is he really as potty about her as he seems at work?”

“More so, probably.”

“God, that’s disgusting. There are times when I’ve been tempted to tell them to get a room, and it’s usually just over the way he’s offered to top up her coffee. By the way, is it true she dumped her husband at a family wedding?”

She enjoys getting into the story, especially the bit about Claire getting on her knees to beg the odious Martin to leave. It may have been a while ago now, but the triumph is still so sweet she can't help letting her mouth run a bit. Belinda is gratifyingly riveted, especially when she hears how Claire raced out of the wedding to call Klare before he boarded his flight. Apparently Belinda had a call booked with him the following morning, and had been taken aback when he’d turned up in person at her desk. The belated explanation for his change of plan clearly tickles her.

“And now how about you, darling. You’re obviously seeing someone. So tell me all about it.” Belinda’s expression is astute, and slightly gleeful.

“What? How can you possibly tell?”

“One, I saw you brush off the chap in the blue shirt just as I arrived. Two, we’ve been here for a couple of hours now and you’ve not made the slightest effort to flirt with me. And three, you’re far too hot to have become a nun. So that leaves only one possibility.”

She can’t help but laugh. “That’s amazing. Sherlock Holmes has nothing on you.”

“And I’m doing it backwards and in high heels, too. So c’mon then, out with it. Who is he or she?”

“He. Sorry to the lesbian sisterhood. And he’s…” she’s suddenly aware that she’s not breathed a word of this to anyone since it all kicked off again in the summer, “…a priest.” Wow. She didn’t think it was possible to shock Belinda, but she clearly has. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few months, now.”

“The celibate kind of priest? A _Catholic_ one?” Belinda’s eyebrows shoot up at her nod, and she turns to flag down the bartender for another round. “I think we definitely need more drinks. Darling…” her expression is gently concerned, “…far be it for me to tell you what to do with your life, but is getting involved with a priest really the best idea?”

She squirms a bit. “On paper, no. I know how it sounds.”

Belinda sighs. “It’s not just that he’s promised to give up love and sex that’s the problem, it’s that the institution he’s part of is wildly, insanely, unrepentantly misogynistic. God, the Catholic Church! Anti-gay, anti-woman, riddled with corruption and abuse… I mean, did you see this the other day?” She starts rooting around in her bag, pulling out her phone and tapping at it for a few moments. “Look! Just look at this story. Fucking unbelievable.”

She scans down the newspaper article Belinda has pulled up. It seems the entire Vatican-based editorial staff of a Catholic women’s magazine walked out in protest over the Church’s non-reaction to a story they'd uncovered, about priests sexually abusing the nuns who’d been assigned to assist them.

“Servants! They kept them as maids, raped them if they felt like it, and the Church not only turned a blind eye, they actually _paid for abortions_ and kept right on lecturing the faithful about the sanctity of life! Just fucking _horrendous,”_ Belinda’s anger is spilling out with every clipped word, “…and - Oh my God, darling, speaking of that I _really_ hope you’re taking precautions. How would your priest react if you fell pregnant?”

“I’m _not!_ Definitely not! I’ve had a coil for _years,_ " since she'd been in a committed relationship with Harry, in fact, "And I’m not really worried about catching anything else from him, I mean it’s not like he’s exactly been putting it about…”

Belinda snorted. “Well thank God - or whoever - for that.” She’s frowning, tapping her phone screen with one short, manicured fingertip. “Look, I’m going to share this article with you because I think you should talk to him about it when you next see him, and about what this institution really means to him. Because from where I’m sitting, shagging you on the quiet whilst representing an organisation that preaches that women and sex are corrupting forces and then quietly abuses them behind closed doors isn’t a good look.”

****

“Father, I’m heading out so I can pick up your dry cleaning on my way back, if you like. Father…?”

Pam’s voice drags his attention way from the article he’s reading on his phone. “Uh… yeah, sure. Thanks. That’s… um, really good of you.” He hopes the sick feeling it's causing him isn’t too obvious on his face. In quite a few ways, he’s glad for the respite from her company for a few hours while he digests what’s happened in Rome and why the story’s been sent to him. He has a feeling he can guess.

He thinks of the half-written letter he’s hidden up in his room. Maybe he should finish writing down his explanations in the few minutes spare he can find over the next week and a bit. The weight of suppressing them is growing heavier on him as December rumbles on. 

Just seven days until Christmas.

_Love is awful, indeed._


	5. Chapter 5

_Peace at last._ The last candle burns high and clear on the altar as he turns, white-robed and pale-faced, to face his parishioners. Their usual trickle has swollen into a placid sea of faces on Christmas morning, so he needs to work a little harder than usual to project his voice over them all. There are entire families here he doesn’t see very often, so he makes a point looking over to them during his homily, connecting even though he knows they’re unlikely to turn up again until Easter.

Pam is there of course, her face shining joyously. He’s not entirely sure how much is due to the day, the quality of his service, or being surrounded by her well-scrubbed and neatly turned out grandchildren. 

He looks out for his foxy atheist a bit nervously when he prepares the Consecration, but there’s no sign of her in the crowd. The closest representatives are Jake and Martin, and only Jake makes his way up to accept the Eucharist from him. _To be fair, it’s hard to imagine Martin ever being in a suitable state of grace for it, really. Even today._

Afterwards, when he stands at the door to offer the peace of the day as the crowd departs, he finds that he is almost looking forward to the solitude. 

****

The early dusk is falling as he walks back from the high street with gin and a couple bottles of tonic to help get him through the rest of the afternoon and evening. The temperature is dropping and the wind is bitter, nipping fiercely at his ears and snaking around his ecclesiastical collar, as though reminding him he shouldn’t expect it to shield him. 

It’s surprising how empty Christmas Day is once mass is over and everyone is at home with their celebrations. London is eerily quiet.

He can feel the flat, hard shape of the letter he’s carrying in his breast pocket rubbing against his chest. He’s been packing it around for days, telling himself that he’s never close enough to a post box and far too busy to detour to one, but the truth is he’s afraid. He knows he’s doing it again - putting things off due to his own weakness - and he’s not especially proud of it.

Pulling his scarf up, he buries his fingers in his pockets and decides to take the long way back to the rectory.

****

When he finally arrives home he’s surprised to find Pam still in.

“Oh hello, what are you still doing here? Won’t you be late for your Christmas lunch?”

She closes the magazine in her lap. “I’ll be a little late, but I’ve warned them so it shouldn’t matter too much. I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Father.”

He hopes his puzzlement isn’t too obvious. “Oh that’s really nice of you, but…”

“Father. I need to ask you something, and I would really appreciate it if you would be honest with me.” Something in her tone is so stern it freezes him. Mystified, he searches her face for clues. 

“Er… of course I’ll be honest with you, Pam. Is there anything wrong?”

“There might be,” something in her expression makes his knees buckle, so he sits opposite her, his hands tightening nervously in his lap. “Are you in love with her?” 

And just like that, the oxygen in the room dissipates. “I…” he’s gasping, nearly at a complete loss for words “I… well… how did you know?”

Her smile is patient, and a little resigned. “Oh Father, I’ve been around for a while. And I’ve got eyes.” When he continues to stare at her, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat, she adds, “It’s the tall woman, the pretty one with the red lipstick, isn’t it?” She accepts his speechless nod and continues, 

“I saw how you reacted to her that time she first turned up and hung around to talk to you after mass. And then again at the fete - you didn’t want _anything_ to interrupt when you were chatting to her, did you?” It’s true, he hadn’t. He’d been slightly irritated when Pam had guilelessly interrupted their small talk.

“And then she kept coming round here at all hours, and you’d go out to talk together and sometimes you'd even go out on your errands with her. Then one night you didn’t come back here at all, and straight away she just disappeared,” Pam snapped her fingers for emphasis, “She didn’t even come to mass anymore.” She’s peeling his protective layers off with surgical precision.

“I watched you mope around here - I’ve raised boys, I remember what heartbreak looks like -“ she ignores his reddening cheeks and carries on, “So when she started turning up again and you started disappearing for hours at a time, I put two and two together.”

He can barely look at her. “Pam, I’m so sorry…”

She not having his apologies. Her next question pins him down as securely as a captured butterfly: “Do you love her, Father?”

The silence between them stretches out as sticky and delicate as spider silk.

“Yes.” He’s dimly aware it’s the first time he’s admitted this to anyone who wasn’t professionally bound not to judge him, “I do. I’ve tried not to.”

God, the mess this is making of his head. His doesn’t know how to tell her; _in the end, I weighed up all my responsibilities to you and the rest of the parish, but they’re not enough to stop me wanting to fall into her and worship for as long as I can last._

When he finally dares to look up, he’s startled to see that Pam’s eyes are glittering strangely in the soft candlelight. 

“I thought so,” she sighs and looks away for a moment, then turns back to him, steely and resolute. “Father, I need to be honest with you as well. And believe me, you are the first person to hear my confession who wasn’t very much involved.”

He’s startled. This sudden shift isn’t what he’s started preparing for at all.

“You’ll have heard that I was invited to live here after I was widowed because Father Patrick needed a housekeeper. That’s really not the whole story.”

The realisation of what she’s about to tell him is driven as much by her expression as by her words. His head is swimming as on the fly, parish history remaps and alters. “So you were invited to live here…”

“…because Patrick and I were together,” Pam is nodding, “It started after my husband passed on. My boys had their own families to look after, and I came to Patrick for support. I was already so involved in the parish, so we already knew each other well. And he was such a good priest - so dedicated, and so kind. At first he was just listening to me talk about my marriage and my grief, and helping me not feel so lost all the time. I felt so comfortable with him. I started spending more and more time here, becoming part of the running of the church and keeping things organised. He told me I was indispensable,” she smiled, remembering, “and I was happy to be able to give back some of the support he’d shown me.”

He's dimly aware that he can't hear the clock ticking in the hall when she pauses. It's like everything has stopped to listen.

“I’m not sure exactly when it started to change between us. I was here all the time, so we were spending a lot of time together. But I gradually became aware that I was thinking about him as much as a man as I did as a priest.”

He is hardly breathing. “So… what happened?”

“Oh I was so embarrassed, developing feelings for our priest. I’ve always so admired the clergy, and all I really wanted to do at the beginning was to help serve God and be a better Christian. But when he finally admitted me to me that he felt the same way, we just couldn’t find it in ourselves to not let it happen.”

He is genuinely stunned. “Was that when you moved in?”

“No, that was a year or so later. We didn’t rush - I loved him, but the last thing I wanted to do was to interfere with his work in this parish. I couldn’t have forgiven myself if I’d made him leave. I was reluctant to come to the rectory, because I was sure people would see through the whole housekeeper story. But no-one did. They just thought it was one of his acts of charity. And I’m nothing if not known for my devotion to the Church.” Her smile is tender, but also pained, “But we kept it secret for such a long time. And I was really as much his wife as it was possible to be,” she took a deep breath, “and then last year, he died.”

He took her hand, her fingers warm and strong in his. “Pam, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, Father. I chose to be with him the way I was. I knew that for him, God would always come first. But I did wish that we could have had a bit of time, at least, to be public. I would have liked to have married him and had our union blessed.” She drew her hand back and smiled ruefully at him.

"I don’t know what to say…”

“Father, there’s nothing I really need you to say.” She rose from her seat, suddenly brisk. “I miss him every day, and the worst thing has been not being able to talk about it. So in a way, telling you has helped.” She’s looking as calm as ever. _Incredible to think she’s been carrying around such a secret for so long._

“But really, I wanted to talk to you about what you are doing, Father. And, I supposed, to make sure that you are really thinking about what you are and aren’t offering to this woman.” Her tone turns gently ironic, “I can’t imagine she’s likely to look for a live-in housekeeping position in the parish, even if I was keen to vacate.”

He can’t hold back his snort at this. “No, I’d say that’s really not a viable option.” God help him, it would be like asking Nikki Minaj to teach the holy communion preparation classes.

“Well, I’m not going to give you any lectures, Father. I’m in no position to throw stones, myself. And also, it’s Christmas Day and I have a family to go to.” She put her coat on and wrapped her big, woolly shawl around her shoulders. Just before she headed out the door, she turned back to him and holds his gaze, firmly. “But I would say this: it’s not easy, always coming second even if you both share the same love. I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone.”

He’s nodding. “Thank you, Pam.” Her eyes are glittering again. 

“Happy Christmas, Father.” And then she leaves him, alone with his unsent letter in the afternoon’s winter gloom.

****

The doorbell goes just after she’s carried the turkey platter out of the kitchen - not the easiest task when she’s wearing a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and a fairly tight black leather skirt, and has put away a fair amount of her dad’s endless supply of sparking wine over the course of the afternoon. She probably should have tried to hold back a little, but the resulting numbness really helps inoculate her against her stepmother’s endless little barbs.

She’s trying to find a space for the platter, but the table is already overcrowded with dishes and an outrageously extravagant centrepiece. (Definitely Liberty-inspired, she’s sure she’s seen the baubles there earlier in the month.) 

Her stepmother, mid-stage direction and in her element, is clearly irritated by the interruption. “Oh for heaven’s sake, on Christmas Day! Darling, do go and send them away, won’t you?” 

As her father obediently troops off and her stepmother starts quizzing Klare on whether it’s usual in Finland for people to turn up at random, she takes advantage of the distraction to pinch one of the chipolatas. Claire targets her with a magnificent _OMG, when are you going to grow up?_ glare, so she grins and chews unrepentantly as she shifts a few dishes aside. Tilting her head towards her sister, she mutters,

“Hey, it’s wasn’t my decision to be fashionable and have Christmas dinner instead of lunch. I’m bloody starving, aren’t you?’

“Yes, but _I_ don’t actually have to steal the food off the table with my fingers. It’s _not civilised.”_

Klare, ever the peacemaker, is topping up her stepmother’s wine, so she picks up a glass, leans over the table and waves it at him hopefully.

“Look who’s turned up!” Her father was back, along with a brief kerfuffle behind her. She twists round to see what’s happening and feels her jaw drop.

“Why Father, hello!” Her stepmother’s irritation switches abruptly to full-beam charm, “What a wonderful surprise! Would you like to join us?”

Her priest is standing in the doorway, still bundled in his coat and what looks like dark but otherwise civilian clothing. She quickly catches Claire’s eye - _are you seeing this too? I’m not hallucinating it?_

“Hey.” He smiles at her, his face sociably relaxed but his eyes dark and intense. He doesn’t respond to any of the questions. Instead, he approaches her and brushes his fingers against her cheek, then slips them under her chin. “Happy Christmas.”

She’s not sure which is sweeter, the press of his lips when he kisses her or the smash of her stepmother’s glass hitting the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

Her boiler is really struggling to cope this cold snap. Original sash windows may look great, but are an absolute bastard in the winter. Shivering, she tightens the belt on her robe and peers into the mugs lined up on the counter. Bugger. Tea’s still a bit pale. It’s tempting to press on the bags to hurry them along. Maybe she should finally commit to some slippers. When she yawns, she’s slightly alarmed to see her breath hovering faintly over the worktop.

Her phone buzzes. Scooping it out of her robe pocket, her mouth twitches as she sees Claire’s name pop up:

“Assuming you’re not alone right now?”

She grins. “Nope.”

There’s a slight pause before Claire responds. Then, “OMG.” And - “Call me later. When you’re free.”

Interesting. For the first time a while, she genuinely has no clue what Claire may be thinking. In her family’s usual style, they had all gaped at their clerical gatecrasher's entrance, and then with impeccably stiff upper lips carried on as though it was entirely normal that he'd turned up, kissed the prodigal daughter, and then joined them for Christmas dinner with his hand resting casually on her thigh under the table.

Of course, the signs of impact were unmistakable if you knew where to look. Her dad was so befuddled it was hard to work out if he was knew what day it was. Claire’s tightly wound reserve was alternately punctuated with flashes of both horror and hilarity, and her stepmother…

_Oh my God. She’ll have assumed I put him up to it just to screw up her evening._

Still, she was a little surprised at just how completely everyone had avoided asking what the hell was going on. Even when they got up to leave together - his hand resting on the small of her back as they made their excuses, moving up to brush the nape of her neck as he helped her with her coat - everyone had studiously avoided mentioning that they seemed to be going back to her place.

Maybe Claire was planning to fill her in on what had happened after they’d left. She would happily lay money on a small, not very well contained explosion.

She’d not thought long about the reaction they might be leaving behind as they’d climbed into the taxi. As soon as he’d pulled the door shut, he’d turned and started kissing her intently, so she’d only noticed they’d arrived outside her flat a few minutes after the driver had pulled up.

The tea’s looking better now. Gathering the mugs carefully, she heads back towards her bedroom. As she steps into the hall she eyes the trail of clothing strewn exuberantly from the front door through to her room - she should probably get around to hanging the silk shirt up at some point - and gently nudges the bedroom door open with her foot. Even in the dimmed light, she can make out the shape of him sprawled under her duvet. He looks utterly crashed, his feet poking out and his tufted head buried deep in one of her pillows. 

“Hey,” she runs a finger up the arch of his foot, making him twitch and moan softly, “Rouse yourself, I have tea. And possibly bacon sandwiches later, if you’re good.”

“I’m not waking up unless there’re _definitely_ bacon sandwiches.” His voice is rough and muffled by the pillows. She deposits the mugs on her bedside and slides back into bed, running her hand up his back as he stretches and slowly rolls over to face her. “Your hands feel really warm.”

“I should hope so, I’ve been clutching mugs of boiled water.” She’s keeping her tone light, but the sight of him rumpled in her bed is so welcome she’s finding it hard not to just resume the near-wordless communion they’d indulged in from the moment they’d left her dad’s house. No. It’s time to have an actually conversation now. _Even if I’m already thinking about what I’d like to do to him..._

He’s evidently in a similar mindset. He’s pushed his hand under her robe and is sliding it up her thigh with studied intent.

“So...” _right, let’s get on with this conversation before his hand gets any further and my thinking goes any hazier,_ “...I have to say, you’re starting to have form for surprising me.”

“Oh really?”

“Well...” she starts ticking the points off her fingers, “First, you assured me we weren’t going to have sex after eye-fucking me for weeks, and then mere days later you snogged me in the confessional and by all appearances were quite up for going further...” better not dwell on that too long, just remembering his breathless apology for his cassock being in her way is eroding her resolve, “...and then you dumped me at a fucking bus stop the next day. But then you turned up at my flat 24 hours later and we ended up fucking all night after all.” And Christ, if it hadn’t haunted her for sodding _months_ afterwards, “And then the next day you told me again that you didn’t want to see me anymore. At the same fucking bus stop.”

He has the grace to look pained. “Jesus, it sounds really bad when you put it that way…”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She’s really proud of how this is coming out: calm, factual, a little stern. Belinda would be proud. Even she can barely tell she’s finding it difficult to not just get on with riding him into oblivion.

“But that’s not all. A year later when we finally meet again, you decided you wanted to have sex in my dad’s upstairs loo, and then pretty bloody regularly after that. But then advent started and we weren’t going to see each other at all until maybe today, except you appeared yesterday during Christmas sodding dinner and now even my dad has probably managed to work out that I’m fucking the parish priest. So, I don’t want to appear difficult or anything, but what exactly is going on in your head?”

“Er… are you sure about your dad? With the way your family took everyone in stride, you’d think we’d been in the open for ages.”

“Please tell me you don’t actually think that us not mentioning something means everything’s fine. Surely you’ve learned that much.”

“Sure, but no-one got punched, which I’ve taken as a positive sign.”

“Give my stepmother time, she likes to get people when they’re least expecting it.” That bright, rictus smile pasted over obvious displeasure had cast a slight chill over her all evening, “Do me a favour, if she ever asks you to pose for her just say no.”

He looks a little nonplussed. “Okay.” His hand drops down from her thigh so he can push himself up and lean against her headboard, his face becoming more contrite by the second. “I really am sorry. I’ve not actually been trying to be quite such an arsehole.”

“I know that.” She watches emotions pass over his face as he pulls his thoughts together.

“It’s just…” he’s choosing his words very carefully, “I had a very clear idea of what I should and shouldn’t do to be a good person, and since I’ve met you that’s become quite a bit more blurred…”

“So far, so Jezebel, eh?”

He laughs at her joke, but his amusement doesn’t go past the surface of his eyes. “The corruption isn’t entirely from your side, believe me.” He draws her gently towards him, “I know that none of this would have happened at all if I hadn’t really wanted it. At every step. But it’s taken me a long time to distinguish between wanting this, and avoiding going back to who I was before I found my faith.”

“You’ve been thinking about this for quite a while now, though…”

“Yes, and it’s been at least 18 months since I’ve tried dumping you at a bus stop, so clearly something is changing.” He sounds slightly facetious, but it’s clearly not aimed at her.

“Little steps?”

“Until now, yes. And I’m not going to make excuses for it, exactly - I really have felt torn, even if I've known I’ve been heading in the right direction.” He takes a deep breath. “I sent my resignation to the bishop yesterday. I’ve told him why I’m leaving. I’ve even told him I’m prepared for excommunication, though I really hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“So he knows?” She finds she is watching his face carefully, like she’s trying to read his entire life history through it. 

“Christ no, not yet. It’s an actual letter, not an email. The post won’t even reach him until tomorrow at the earliest, and that’s only if it’s not drowned in late Christmas cards. So I’d say we have at least a few days before I get the summons to explain myself and am given a chance to repent, change my mind, and be packed off to another parish.”

“So how do you feel about that?”

“Well, I’ve tried dumping you a few times now. You might have noticed I’m pretty shit at it.” He glances at her under his eyelashes in the way that reliably makes her loins melt. “Besides, I know that they will tell me things like this will pass if I just pack them away and ignore them, and I think we can say fairly conclusively that doesn’t actually work.”

“So… it’s me, not God after all?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s you and God. It’s just that I no longer believe that He would bring you into my life just to test my faith and make me prove my love for Him. That would be a really fucked up and controlling thing to do, and I don’t believe He is any of those things. Though God knows I know what those kinds of relationships are like.” 

The hint at his past life freezes a quip half-formed on her tongue. Instead, she winds her fingers through his and keeps listening.

“And really, it wasn’t God who decided that I shouldn’t have a sexual partnership with anyone ever again. I decided that. But I’m not a saint, after all. I just can’t…” he smiles at her, realising the conversation he’s echoing, “…imagine giving up sex again. And the more I look at it, the more I’m realising that many people can’t. So they either do wrong by the people they love…” something unreadable flashes across his face, “Or they give up on faith altogether. Which I think is just as wrong. Or at least it is for me.”

She presses against the full length of him, wrapping a long, slender leg over his and pulling him closer. “So are you still a Catholic?”

“I think I am, but I appreciate that the Church may not agree. Changing your mind about clerical celibacy after ordination is a serious breach of the rules, so although I’m technically leaving the priesthood I actually feel that it’s sort of left me. And if they won’t let me serve in any capacity, well… I may have to think about where else I could go.”

“You can always head for the C of E, Henry the Eighth would have sympathised with you a lot.” 

“Oh Jesus, if I get to the point of cutting off people’s heads to sort out my relationships I really will have fucking problems. But I suppose if my church will take on married C of E vicars who can’t stand the idea of being ordained alongside women, the Anglicans could at least consider taking a priest who’s realised he’s really, really crap at celibacy.”

“So… just how crap are you?” She’s running her fingers up his side, enjoying the way the fine lines around his eyes crinkle as he smiles and leans down to kiss her.

“Oh I’m really, really bad. You wouldn’t believe how terrible.”

A few minutes later, when she has control of her mouth back, she points out, “The tea’s going cold, y'know.”

He tries, and fails, to look concerned. “Yeah.”

He pulls the tie on her robe and slides closer to her, keen to demonstrate just how rapidly his chastity skills are degenerating. But before the haze descends on them both entirely, she has enough presence of mind to pull back and murmur into his ear,

“I’ve just realised I didn’t see you checking for foxes on the way home at all last night.”

He laughs at her. “No point. I’m already caught."


End file.
